When the maître d’ shows you to your blind date’s table, you are pleased with her prominent forehead and symmetric face. She has potential.
Before you can sit, her eyes drift to where your missing leg would be and snap back to your face. She forces a smile.
You talk menu.
She likes the braised shank.
Twabble by Laria Grey
My butcher offered me a hand with my parcels, but they never have enough meat to justify picking out all the little bones.